


Paying Back

by Dayja



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2010-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayja/pseuds/Dayja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some men do not appreciate Sherlock's handling of their cases. They decide to pay him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This story includes graphic violence and police brutality.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own/am not associated with/make no money from 'Sherlock'

**1.**

They were stupid. They were stupid and they wouldn't win because in the end they were going to get caught, and punished, and in the long run they would hurt much worse than what they were doing to him.

Sherlock tried to keep that in mind as the fists repeatedly slammed into his chest, his stomach, his back, and if he could just move-think-fight-breathe, he could get away, and tell and they would never be policemen again. He would tell, even if it was embarrassing, no matter that it was five to one, because Sherlock was good at fighting, was better, smarter, even bigger than three of them, well, taller anyway. But he still hadn't understood at first, and then they had his arms and there was no room to swing, to kick, and the fist in his gut stole his breath and he couldn't say anything, not to scream, not to make them stop, not to cry because it _hurt_.

This wasn't supposed to happen. They were drunk, Sherlock knew that at once; not drunk enough to impair their coordination too much but just buzzed enough to lose some inhibitions, to think this was a good idea when they stumbled upon Sherlock by chance. To pay back the freak. Sherlock saw them, of course he did, he could quite likely have stated who had what to drink and how much. He noticed them but he didn't really care, not even when the first one had called out, "Hey, Freak!" Sherlock ignored that, and all that came after, the gist of which implied a rude and unlikely situation between himself, John, and some cadavers. What did Sherlock care what a bunch of drunken simple-minded throwbacks thought of him? In hind sight, perhaps he shouldn't have said that to them out loud.

They had surrounded him, egging each other on until they had herded Sherlock down an alley that was dark and rough and smelled of stale sickness, piss, and something rotting. Sherlock hadn't been scared so much as annoyed. They were ignorant and stupid and clumsy, and he couldn't quite believe that they were quite so stupid as to escalate things to such a degree. In the end, Sherlock had to admit that even he was prone to certain ingrained ideas which could skew one's perspective. Even his. The real difficulty was that these men were, while still stupid and unpleasant, policemen and as such were the Good Guys. And Good Guys did not go around beating up someone who was…if not Good, then at least on their side. It made no sense. Sherlock did what they could not, what they were too slow and stupid and narrow-minded to do. And maybe their blindness frustrated him, and his own brilliance and love of the theatrical made him rub it in their faces from time to time…well even so.

But here in the dark, where it was five to one, and they were just drunk enough to not remember the consequences this would bring, they decided he could pay, the freak who always showed them up and got into their business and acted like Lestrade's special pet when he wasn't even one of them. Here they were powerful, and at first it was just words, jeers, name-calling, infantile and unoriginal, and not true. John was not his friend for sex, he most certainly didn't suck up to Lestrade, and his parents had been married thank you very much. Sherlock should have ignored them, truly ignored them, turned away before they could surround him and move in too too close, shoving, touching, and _lying_.

And when he started to struggle, to get away because he didn't like the alley and they were too close, and his heart was starting to beat faster, and he wanted John, because John would know their words weren't true, because John was good at fighting, very good, and then it would be two to five and Sherlock would be able to move. They didn't let him get away, though.

They shoved him and laughed, and held his arms, and kept saying vicious lies. Telling him he should leave the police work to real policemen, real men, who did he have to suck to get in with Lestrade, psychopath, freak, robot, where's your lapdog? Cocksucker, psychopath, cold emotionless freak, all alone are you? Where's your friend? He doesn't have any, cold bastard, not unless he lets 'em do him up the arse, did you, Freak? Does your lapdog do you up the arse? Is he with his real friends now? Gonna cry, Freak? Look at the freak, crying for mummy!

Sherlock wasn't crying, he was angry, his heart beat so fast because they were lying and he was angry and they wouldn't let him leave, and he swung his fist, not even at one of them, just to get away. His fist connected a couple of times, hitting someone's arm, his elbow jabbing into someone's ribs, and then they were fighting back. Cheering each other on, saying it's his fault, a lesson, to show him.

They were stupid and clumsy and he should have been able to take them, to beat them, if only he could move, if only he could breathe, but by the time his genius mind came to the conclusion that he was in over his head, that there was a clear danger here, that he should get away, it was too late. A fist slammed viciously into his stomach, arms, chest, back, knees catching him inadvertently on his legs, groin, bottom. He couldn't fight, couldn't shout, couldn't make them stop. There was pain, deep and blossoming and sharp and everything was coming all at once from everywhere and they wouldn't stop, not when they made him whimper or gasp, not when he tried to tell them but couldn't say a word, not when he tried to kick or hit or simply let himself fall because there were bodies all around and no room and someone held him, held his fists, held him up into the rain of fists and pain and heat and too much of everything.

They let him fall in the end, to the hard rough ground, gagging on the smells of the alley, vomiting over their shoes. They were like giants over him, tall and solid and laughing and jeering, and the words weren't true, and then they kicked him. There was too much in the world for a while, too much pain, too much movement, too much to process, and so for a short while the world simply went away. Sherlock wasn't passed out, but he wasn't fighting back, anymore than trying to curl in on oneself could be fighting back. He heard their final words, warnings and threats and reminding him to 'stay away'. He didn't respond, didn't move, just waited for it to _stop_.

When the world came back, his sense of time felt displaced. It might have been five minutes since he had been left alone. It might have been five hours. He hurt, all over.

He had gotten in rough fights before. His self appointed job lent itself towards violent encounters. So this should be no different than the occasions where someone got some good jabs in. He had had bones broken before, nearly been strangled to death, had people come at him with knives and guns and blunt objects. This…this was more akin to schoolyard bullies getting the jump on him. So he should get up, limp home, wash away the blood. He should report them, get them arrested for assault. A part of him even considered running to his big brother; that would ensure justice would be served. Most of him wanted John.

Except he didn't want anyone to see him or know. It was humiliating that it happened, and they would see how weak he was, and he knew some of them would say it was his fault. And he didn't care what they thought, what any of them thought, and of course someone had to know or they wouldn't get in trouble. But he couldn't just stay lying, whimpering in an alley.

He couldn't stay, but he couldn't move. It hurt, everything hurt, and he was weak and stupid to not just grit his teeth and move through it, he knew he could move if he tried. Surely those overgrown ignorant apes hadn't beaten him worse than the average criminal who had gotten the best of him; if he could be up and running after nearly being strangled to death, after broken ribs or on one memorable occasion a deep gash on his arm, then some rough treatment by uncouth thugs surely wasn't enough to leave him helpless and useless, lying on the ground.

So he did move, just a little bit, and those whimpers were not him, and perhaps there was something broken inside him because this hurt hurt hurt hurt….

He meant to call John. Or Lestrade. Or even Mycroft, because as humiliating as that would be, Mycroft was still his big brother, and it was an almost instinctive response to run to his brother and tell him about the bullies who beat him up and watch them pay. He meant to move, to drag himself out of the alley and back into the light. And he didn't pass out, he didn't think, but the world was a bit fuzzy and he could not begin to understand where the stranger had suddenly come from, leaning over him and asking if he was alright.

More people appeared after that. Time was all skewed and weird, and somehow he hadn't called John, and John still wasn't there, and he was still in the alley when people told him they were there to help and wanted him to answer. He might have told them his name was John Watson, before the world went away once more.

He had a distinct memory of waking up later, dead tired and noticing he was moving but not being able to wake up enough to even care. He fell back into the void.


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

Sherlock awoke to a dull ache and a deadness in his limbs which spoke of a hard night the night before and he didn't want to wake up. Even his quick mind felt sluggish and dull, still half asleep and weighed down, and given half a chance he might have let himself drift away back to sleep. But he was also thirsty, his throat feeling gritty and full of glass, and people were talking nearby, which was odd. His first thought was that he had fallen asleep on the sofa again, and perhaps John was watching the TV. Except the more he woke up to think about it, the stronger the feeling grew that he was forgetting something. That it wasn't just a late night, that he wasn't lying on the sofa, and unless the world had very much changed, why would the TV sound more like Lestrade and Mycroft conversing softly?

Something brushed against his hand and he flinched away.

Sherlock Holmes did not flinch. Frowning now, though he still hadn't opened his eyes, he tried to remember where he was and what was going on. A hand found his, gently, and he was disconcerted when he flinched again, though this time the hand followed and he allowed it to curl around his own. The thumb rubbed over the back of his hand in a soothing manner.

"Easy, Sherlock," a very familiar voice said quite close by, practically in his ear as though the person were leaning over him. This was all wrong, but the voice was familiar and he relaxed slightly. John was here, as well as Mycroft and Lestrade. Wherever he was, and whatever had happened, he was safe.

"Come on, Sherlock, open your eyes," John's voice continued, soothing but insistent. By now there was no chance Sherlock was going to let himself fall back asleep. Actually opening his eyes turned out to be a struggle; they felt heavy and gummy and his face felt oddly sore. He did manage in the end, blinking slowly. The light in the room hurt, though not as much as memory suggested it might; they must have anticipated such a problem and dimmed the lights for him. He saw John first, sitting very close, and it was John's hand on his. Sherlock tried to read John as he always did, and as always there were corners that he couldn't seem to reach. He did deduce that John was tired, worried, and angry. Sherlock turned his eyes to the room.

Mycroft was there, and Lestrade, and their expressions very much mirrored John's. The room itself began to make more sense and slowly he came to realize he was in a hospital room, a private one which was probably Mycroft's influence, and he slowly became aware of sounds of contraptions which had been present all along, so much so that they had faded into background noise until he started to pay attention. So, he had been hurt, or ill, but most likely hurt. Still frowning, he tried to remember where he had been before…

The beeping noise in the background suddenly sped up and breathing was becoming difficult, and John was telling him to calm down, that he was safe, that it was over, and of course it was, because John was there.

Sherlock may or may not have said that out loud.

Doctors came into the room, no doubt called by the machines, and he didn't like them there; he already had a doctor, and he definitely told them that when they tried to ask him pointless questions about dates and prime ministers. John offered him some water which he had to sip slowly and Sherlock finally answered them when it became clear they weren't leaving until he did. They looked concerned about his answers.

"The  _British_  prime minister, Sherlock," John said, and Sherlock gave him a baffled look at the complete idiocy of such a line of questions. "They want to know if you have brain damage. Just humor them."

So Sherlock did, but one of the doctors tried to stay anyway to tell him about the damage to his body, which seemed to mostly include broken ribs, one broken arm, and the matter which had most concerned them when he first arrived, internal bleeding. Sherlock kept his eyes on his proper doctor as the intruder spoke. John was in soldier stance, alert and ready but also calm. He didn't look like Sherlock needed to be alarmed over his body's condition, if anything he looked more angry than worried at the moment, though probably not at Sherlock because he also smiled thinly at him, perhaps to be reassuring at the intruding doctor's dire assessment. Of course, Sherlock realized, it was that caring thing again. And there was proof right there that  _they_ had been lying. The heart monitor blipped more insistently for a moment and the small smile slipped, and Sherlock studied the flexing of John's facial muscles until any thoughts of  _them_  and their lies faded away. The monitor calmed.

Then the doctor had wanted to do all sorts of prodding, asking him to squeeze his hand and the like. John suggested that he do it, since Sherlock might be more comfortable with him. The doctor objected, citing hospital policies. Mycroft overruled him and the intruder finally left and he was alone with John and Mycroft and Lestrade.

Lestrade didn't say much, and Sherlock wondered vaguely if he was there for a statement. Then John was being annoying, but Sherlock allowed it because he was informed that it was either John or the other doctor would be called back again. So Sherlock squeezed his hand when asked, and moved various muscles, and told John how much things hurt (a lot more than they had when he hadn't been trying to squeeze hands and move muscles). Throughout all this no one asked what had happened or if he remembered how he got hurt. So when John was finally satisfied with all his doctorly prodding and Lestrade wandered towards the bed, Sherlock assumed that the time had come.

"Ah, Lestrade," Sherlock said, "I suppose you are here to take a statement?" He managed to keep his voice steady and strong, but the heart monitor told on him by speeding up.

"Actually, I was called here when you arrived," he answered, smiling slightly in a manner that was puzzling to interpret because he obviously wasn't pleased or happy that Sherlock was here; he had spent John's tests flinching slightly and clinching his fists. Sherlock stared at him questioningly. "You didn't have any identification on you," Lestrade continued, "Except, apparently, for a badge. So they called John from your mobile, you had managed to tell them his name, and me from the badge."

"Ah," Sherlock answered. Perhaps that was why Lestrade was smiling, to show he wasn't going to be angry over that. Then all three of his visitors were silent, and the situation began to creep up on him. His eyes felt heavy and his body ached, but he didn't want to just go to sleep again because he had to…he had to do something that was important. He was going to tell, wasn't he? Even if it was embarrassing and humiliating to confess to, because Lestrade was supposed to arrest them, and John was supposed to…do something, be here perhaps, and Mycroft…Mycroft was going to make sure those men went away and didn't come back so Sherlock didn't have to flinch away from hands anymore, which was a stupid, weak thing to do in the first place and he didn't understand why his body kept betraying him by doing just that.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock," John said softly, his hand running soothingly through his hair in manner that ought to have been humiliating, as though he were a child or a cat, but Sherlock was too tired and achy to care.

"Can't," he mumbled, instead of telling John to stop, "Have to…have to…"

"They are gone, Sherlock," Mycroft said suddenly, leaning over him, "They were caught on film. They won't be back." There was something solid and dark in his brother's voice, something heavy and assuredly true. Sherlock doesn't have to tell. And finally, he lets his eyes fall shut once more.


	3. Paying Back Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **3.**

**3.**

Home was better than the hospital but it was so agonizingly _slow_. Sherlock hated it. Mrs. Hudson didn't once say she wasn't his housekeeper when she brought him tea or soup and she had propped his skull right by his elbow while he was sleeping on the sofa. People spoke in whispers and looked at him and their expressions kept twisting around. Nobody was behaving the way they were supposed, and that was _wrong_. It was like they thought Sherlock was broken and fragile and the world was too slow and every movement was like wading through molasses.

He didn't like it when people started behaving wrong; it put him on edge. Mycroft had stopped by to visit and said nothing whatsoever about needing him for a case. Apparently he was 'in the neighborhood'. Utterly ridiculous, of course. He spent most of the time talking with John which was weird. Lestrade had stopped by six times, and when Sherlock asked why he kept coming over (there were obviously no interesting cases, and Lestrade hadn't once gone snooping for drugs) he said he liked Mrs. Hudson's tea. Granted, the woman did know how to brew a nice pot, but it hardly warranted so many visits.

And then there was the cleaning. Someone had gone through and rearranged everything to make things easier for him before he got home. Sherlock didn't want things _easier_ ; he wanted everything back the way it was before. The people were acting wrong and the rooms were wrong and the way he had to hobble stiffly instead of hop about at will was wrong wrong _wrong_. He couldn't even do the activities he usually did to distract himself when the world became unpleasant or slow because of the cast. John had insisted upon crippling him further by binding the limb to his chest making the violin or typing near impossible to achieve.

He also hurt, though that was at least partly his own fault since he kept palming the pain pills John gave him. The pills made him dizzy and turned the world too big and blanketed and stole away his intellect when currently his intellect was the only thing going for him as his body had obviously decided to stop working properly. So he stopped taking them and his brain felt alive but the aches kept growing and growing, hot and sharp, and he wasn't going to give in, he wasn't and yet…perhaps it would be nice for the world to be a little less real, just for a while.

He finally gave in when John saw him wince for the eighth or ninth time and gave him that concerned look that meant he was getting ready to do more prodding and ask questions and as John wasn't quite as stupid as most people Sherlock had to deal with, especially when it came to medicine, Sherlock suspected he would soon have been found out. That was why he finally took some of the pills and not because of the sharp twinges in his chest. He did catch John's look of relief afterwards and decided he had not been as sneaky as he had thought. Or John was becoming more observant, but that was just too wrong to contemplate.

John was looking at him again. It was more than a little distracting, especially as Sherlock was currently attempting to type and probably looked quite pathetic at his efforts. His first thought was that John suspected Sherlock's plan to remove his arm from the annoying and useless sling the moment his back was turned. But it wasn't that kind of look. More brooding.

"I've been hurt on cases before, you know," Sherlock declared suddenly. John jumped.

"I know," was all he said, non-confrontational and somehow quite serious. If Mycroft had answered in that manner, he would have made quite sure Sherlock knew he was merely humoring him until Sherlock came to his senses. At least John had not changed overmuch in his mannerisms; he had always been just a little bit too worried over whether Sherlock was eating or sleeping or using too many patches. He was almost too understanding now. It wasn't like Sherlock had gone to war and gotten wounded.

"Sherlock…?" John began, his entire manner hesitant.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered sullenly, not looking up from where he pecked carefully at the keyboard. He had almost developed a new method for typing from the center.

"…I know you've been hurt before…"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock knew what John wanted. He wanted to talk. Sherlock most adamantly did not; he had determined that the best course in dealing with this experience was to learn what was useful from it (Don't let yourself be corralled down dark alleys; there's no such thing as a Good Guy, and if there were the police weren't it) and delete the rest. Then perhaps his body would stop betraying him and he would sleep properly and life would go on. John obviously disagreed.

"Sherlock." John sounded disappointed now, sighing, and Sherlock clinched his hands. It hurt a bit. "They were criminals," John continued, his voice stronger now, decisive. So he wasn't going to give up, then.

"Well they certainly committed a crime. Though I imagine not everyone would agree, Anderson for example, perhaps Donovan…"

"They were disgusted, actually. Donovan wanted to be the one to cuff them herself."

"Well…" Sherlock did not stammer; he was just wrong footed for a moment. He knew there were people who didn't like him, most people who knew him, in fact, except perhaps those he had performed services or favors for. Shouldn't they be cheering at his humiliation and weakness? Perhaps when he said disgusted, he meant at Sherlock's feeble attempts at self defense. "I can think of at least five who would disagree."

"They are criminals," John repeated obstinately. Sherlock stared. For once, he had no idea what John was trying to tell him.

"Yes, you said. And they have been arrested. What is your point?"

"No one thinks less of you for running afoul of some criminals. You were ganged up on, five to one, by men who should have been safe with. There's no shame in that."

Sherlock stared, utterly perplexed. He knew there was no shame. He also knew that he was an excellent fighter and those thugs had been morons. He knew he should have been able to escape, that he should have been able to beat them. And everyone knew about his weakness, and it wasn't weakness, but it was. He was ashamed. And he hated himself for feeling it because he hated feeling, especially feeling week and pathetic, and especially especially when he knew his feelings were ridiculous in the first place.

"You didn't make them attack you. You didn't deserve it. You aren't weak."

Sherlock continued to stare. John waited.

"I'm not good with…people," Sherlock said at last, "I annoy people. I…"

"You tell the truth. If they can't handle that, it's their problem, not yours."

"You think I should be nicer. You want me to _care_."

"And that's my problem. It doesn't mean you deserve to be beaten."

Sherlock flinched, then hissed in frustration that his body was still jerking of its own accord, as though he were a stranger inside his own skin. John must have misread the movement and hiss as pain because he was scanning him now, his hand twitching in the way it did when he wanted to do something physical that he didn't think Sherlock would allow, like hugs or fussing with bandages. Sherlock glared in annoyance. He wasn't fragile or breakable or weak, he didn't want to feel or talk about feelings or care or fear or be in pain or flinch. And suddenly he was slamming his laptop shut, throwing it on the couch with far too much force and not much caring if he broke it.

"I'm not broken!" he shouted, pulling in furry at his sling, wanting it off, wanting his arm un-broken and the world back to normal with the rooms in their normal, familiar mess, and the people in his life being normal and familiar, and he couldn't stop feeling. He was angry, furious, raging mad so his hands shook and his eyes watered and his teeth clinched and that didn't explain at all why he didn't shrug away the arms that were suddenly around him. John was warm, and he was familiar after all, and people who were only angry didn't bury their faces into their friend's sweater and scream and scream and just hold on as though that friend were the only anchor in the world.

Later, later he could be mortified about this unseemly display. Right now he was feeling something that was strong enough to drown every unpleasant thought that had been crowding his brain in this slow, slow world. Fury, hot and righteous and loud ripped through him until he was sobbing and then even that drained away and he was empty. Empty and warm and safe. He breathed in John and let go.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

John was at work when he got the text.

_Apprehending muggers. May need help._

How Sherlock could be in the process of fighting off muggers and still be able to text such a comprehensible statement, John had no idea.  He didn’t ponder on it long, adrenalin pumping and shadow of the fear he had felt that night not so long ago.  He definitely didn't dwell on memories.  Of getting a call that an unknown male had said his name before lapsing into unconsciousness.  Realizing that they meant Sherlock. Watching the gritty feed on Mycroft’s phone, still not knowing if the end result would be murder. Lestrade grimly naming names, not even attempting to deter Mycroft with talk of laws and procedures.

No one else was shown the video, except for Donovan and Anderson when they had come demanding an explanation for why one of the men who had gone into work the next morning, as though he was perfectly innocent of attempted murder the night before, had been dragged away by strangers with high clearance in handcuffs.

Donovan had had a few choice words after she saw the video. Even Anderson had looked decidedly pale and stopped speaking in his friend’s defense. John’s first, somewhat uncharitable thought was that Anderson had had a narrow shave; if he had gone drinking with his friend that night he might have been one of the ones being apprehended this morning. But that was unfair. He looked more sick than relieved, his hands clinching into fists. John had just wanted someone tangible to lash out at, and the ones he wanted to destroy were out of reach. It was just as well. He wasn’t sure if he could descend as far as his fury might take him and still come out unscathed on the other side.

Sherlock was mending. He hadn’t died then. He had woken up and known his own name, had the same sharpness in his eyes, the same personality. His limbs moved as they were meant to, though pained and clumsily for the moment.

In John's dreams the beating didn’t stop. He was always helpless, hours too late, watching through a lens. In his dreams grim faced doctors sadly shook their heads. In his dreams he was a doctor, and bullets flew, and he was always too late. Far better to face Sherlock’s dreams, hold his hand, remind him what was real in the half shadowed twilight between sleep and awake, in the space Sherlock allowed comfort without reserve.

But he was mending. He was out of hospital and out of the sling, if not the cast, and he was meant to stay safe and bored at home while John worked. Not out and sending texts that he was about to be killed or beat up again. When John was too far away to help. Again.

It might cost him his job if he kept running away at a moment’s notice. John ran anyway.

Finding out where Sherlock was took only a moment. If he had been Sherlock, he might have deduced it using a series of logical inferences of what he knew about Sherlock, Sherlock’s limitations, and where he was likely to go. Being John, he did the sensible thing and tracked Sherlock’s phone.

He called Lestrade on the way.

“Yes, I know, he texted me too,” Lestrade answered, “I’m on my way now…do you know where he is exactly?” So John gave him the details.  John got there first.

He didn’t know what he was expecting. Perhaps to find Sherlock lying bleeding on the sidewalk or down some dark alley. Stabbed or shot or simply having had his head bashed in by a lead pipe. Beaten up, bones re-broken, bruised and bloody, so that doctors talk about chances and possible brain injuries and likelihoods of him pulling through.

Sherlock was in an alley. And he was bleeding, from a knife wound John guessed. John stared at the blood.

“Oh good, you came,” Sherlock said from his position of sitting on top of another man.

“Help!” the man he was sitting on cried out hysterically, “This man’s insane!” A second man was lying nearby, looking rather dazed and handcuffed to some metal grating.

“I don’t suppose you have another pair of handcuffs? He is quite uncomfortable.

“He broke my fucking arm!” the squashed would-be mugger screamed. Sherlock frowned, looking down at him.

“You stabbed me,” he pointed out, “And you made me drop the shopping.”

“You went shopping?” John asked, feeling a bit giddy and dizzy at the same time. The cut was quite shallow across Sherlock’s neck, and had by great fortune managed to avoid slicing through anything particularly vital; it didn’t even look like it would need stitches. It had bled just enough to give Sherlock a macabre appearance, rather as though he had just been attacked by a vampire.

What-ifs and Almosts collided with the truth of what must have happened and suddenly John could not restrain a laugh. Sherlock stared at him as though fearing he had lost his mind. John wasn’t sure that hypothesis was wrong.

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock asked.

“You never go shopping,” was all John could think to say.

“Yes…well. See what happens when I do?” And then Sherlock was smiling too, a smile without hesitation or bitterness, the first real smile John had seen him wear in a long time. And for the first time in all the time that Sherlock had been healing, John understood that he would truly  _heal_.

When Lestrade finally came to apprehend the two muggers, he didn’t comment on the way they kept giggling. He didn’t even ask where Sherlock had gotten the pair of handcuffs.

He did mention that he had a case that had been troubling him.

“Easy target, you said,” the less dazed mugger grumbled as they were stowed away for a trip to the a&e before the station, “Look, he has a cast. Fucking weapon more like it, nearly bashed my brains in.”

John gathered the shopping, which consisted of a broken carton of eggs, tea, tampons (“For a case,” Sherlock had assured him when John had given him a look with a raised eyebrow), Ramón noodles, apples, and a box of biscuits.

“You forgot the milk again,” John commented as he matched his gait to Sherlock’s much slower than usual limp. It was slightly more pronounced than it had been, and John itched to check him over and to clean up the blood that was soaking into his shirt collar. They were getting more than a few odd looks as they went by. A few teenage girls were positively staring, something a bit disturbing in the way their eyes looked Sherlock up and down.

“No I didn’t,” Sherlock answered, “It broke when I threw it at the second mugger.”

“Ah. That explains why he was so wet.” And the dazed expression, perhaps.

Things weren’t perfect after that. There were still nightmares, for both of them, and flinching, and even zoning at inopportune moments. But the bruises and cuts healed. The cast came off. John wasn’t fired from his job after all.

And if Sherlock never found the world quite back to normal, the new normal did stop feeling wrong.

The End


End file.
